I Am Sher-Locked Up
by notan8footpython
Summary: Sherlock Holmes: the man, the myth, the legend. John Watson: the soldier, the comforter, the strong. That's what everyone thinks, anyway. John has found out about the deep, dark secret Sherlock clutches so close to himself, and is determined to help the detective. The two fall in love, their resolve and strength tested every day of the war in Sherlock's head. TW: depression, etc
1. Chapter 1 - Where It All Began

**_John_**

Sherlock is sitting at the table, staring at the blank computer screen in front of him. His breakfast lays untouched, two slices of blackberry jam toast and a hard boiled egg. John notices. He was starting to become concerned about the young detective; he was hardly eating. Which wasn't particularly new behavior for Sherlock, but considering they weren't working a case today...John decides to test a theory.

"Sherlock, can you pass me the salt?" John wants to see if his hand shakes when he passes it to him

Sherlock's eyes snap up to meet John's, then look to the salt shaker sitting half a foot away. "No."

John is frustrated, but forces a smile anyway. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "WHAT, John?"

"Are you working a case today?" John asks.

"No, I'm looking for one right now."

John can see the glare from blank computer screen reflected in Sherlock's glasses, but says nothing.

"Why?"

"Just wondering." John says. He hesitates a little while before asking what was really on his mind. "It's just that, well, you aren't eating, haven't done for the past few days, and-yes I know you don't eat on a case," he adds as Sherlock opens his mouth to interrupt. "But that's just the thing though, we aren't on a case, so why aren't you eating?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes slightly before asking, "Why do you care? Not affecting you one way or another how much or how little I eat."

John groans inwardly at his best friend's seeming inability to understand that others, unlike him, actually care about the ones they love.

"Well, yes, I know it's not affecting me physically, but-

"But what?" Sherlock interjects, narrowing his eyes more.

"Well, I kinda have to notice Sherlock, I am your flat mate AND a doctor, I know when someone is underweight, I know when-"

"I am not underweight." Sherlock states in a deadly calm voice. "I am perfectly fine. Now if you would excuse me..."

He gets up and strides purposefully to his violin and picks it up in one fluid motion, and before John can make a sound of protest, Sherlock is in his bedroom with the door shut and his music playing.

 ** _Sherlock_**

Sherlock plays a vigorous and aggressive tune on his violin, trying to stamp out the unaccustomed feeling of worry.

 _Sherlock, you really screwed up this time, he almost found out, he almost figured it out, he could have found out..._

Sherlock continues playing angrily, ignoring the broken bow hairs snapping and catching in the strings. He is interrupted; however, by a hesitant tap-tap-tap on his bedroom door. He plays on.

"Sherlock?" John's voice pipes worriedly from outside his room. "Coming in now, Sherlock, okay?"

Sherlock ignores him, continuing to play more and more violently on his instrument.

John appears in front of the taller man, trying to catch the eye which studiously avoids his.

"Sherlock." John grabs the scroll of the violin, pulling it down so Sherlock is forced to look at him.

Sherlock glares at him, yanking his violin back.

"Sherlock!" John shouts, forcibly taking the violin out of his thin hands.

"WHAT, John?" Sherlock growls irritably.

"I want to know why you're not eating."

 _Shitshitshitshitshitshiitttttttttttt_

"I don't have time for eating, John, I'm much too busy-"

"Busy with what, Sherlock, exactly?" John was not buying it. "We aren't on a case, we aren't doing anything-"

"There's the problem right there," Sherlock mutters under his breath.

"-and there is absolutely no excuse not to eat!" John finishes angrily. "Come now, let's make you some yoghurt, I'll put some brown sugar in it so it's not so plain..."

Sherlock lets John lead him into the kitchen, only half listening to his ramblings about food.

Food. Such a wretched word. Full of calories and trans fat and every bite adds pounds to his already less than desirable figure.

"...and when we're all done we'll put on a bit of tea-"

"More like a bit of weight" Sherlock says to himself, a little too loudly.

"What's that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock puts on his calm demeanor, even though alarm bells and sirens are going off in his head. "Nothing. Just muttering to myself is all."

"Oh. Right then. Okay, so here's some yoghurt," he thrusts some creamy white substance in a bowl topped with brown sugar into his arms, "and some tea," he pushes a hot cup into Sherlock's less than eager hands.

John looks at Sherlock apprehensively, worry slightly clouding his features.

Sherlock slowly sits, slowly lifts the spoon to his lips, puts it in his mouth, an still closes his mouth, and...swallows. He tries not to cringe as he feels the hated food slide down his throat, cool and creamy and full of regret.

John seems extremely relieved at Sherlock's apparent accepting of the food, and, wholly satisfied with his behavior, leaves Sherlock alone with his empty plate and full stomach.

"Going to go get some milk, 'kay Sherlock?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, he instead waits until he hears the door latch catch, counts to ten and...

He bolts from his seat into his bathroom, locking the door behind him and jamming his finger down his throat frantically, trying desperately to rid his stomach of every molecule of food, every fat-producing calorie disguised as sustenance, and once he is satisfied that no trace of food is left in his body, he closes his eyes and leans his head back on the tile wall. Although he doesn't mean to, exhaustion soon overtakes his hunger-weakened body, and he sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2 - All Hell

_**Sherlock**_

Sherlock was floating on a cloud.

"Sherlock."

Light as a feather.

"Sherlock."

No weight to him at all.

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock snaps back to reality; his eyes flew open as he realized where he was. He scrambles to get up, slipping on his jacket and crashing into the wall opposite to him.

"Sherlock, where the hell are you?" He hears John call as his footsteps pad into his bedroom.

Sherlock curses under his breath as he tries to wash his hands and mouth out, forgetting completely about the sick in the toilet.

Stupid, _stupid, STUPID Sherlock!_

As John opens the door, Sherlock jumps up and leans against the door, yelling,

"NO, NO, NO, JOHN, _DON'T COME IN! JOHN!"_

John tries to open the door, and is surprised when he feels a weight pressing against it. Although Sherlock is bigger than John, John's army strength won out and Sherlock's insubstantial weight was thrown back

John pushes him out of the way, peering into the porcelain bowl. "Sherlock, have you been sick?"

Sherlock finds his voice at last, "Yes, John, in fact I have, I am not feeling so well now that you mention it, so if you would kindly leave my washroom-"

John whirls on Sherlock. "No, Sherlock, I will not 'leave your washroom', you've made yourself sick! Sherlock, do you have an eating disorder?"

Sherlock stiffens slightly at the last words, and refuses to reply.

"Sherlock. I'm waiting."

Sherlock remains silent.

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor, and I can tell when someone is sick, and I know you have an eating disorder!"

It was Sherlock's turn to be angry. "John, I can assure you I am perfectly fine, I am not sick, I am not damaged, and I do not have an eating disorder!"

"Sherlock, that is complete shite, you know that, right? You are lying to yourself! You are lying to _me!_ Do you realize how dangerous eating disorders are?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes, John, I know, I'm not an idiot. That's precisely why I do not have one. It is dangerous. It is stupid to put oneself to in danger unnecessarily."

John is an odd shade of pink now. "Then that makes you the most stupid, selfish git in the universe! Sherlock, you are the most brilliant mind I've ever met, why on EARTH would you choose to do this to yourself?!"

Sherlock's temper flares, a snarl twisting his mouth. "You think I want this, John? You think I have a choice? It's either eat or look like _this_ -" he gestures to his body "-and I don't want to look like _this_ " he gestures again "so I mustn't eat! WHY is this so DIFFICULT for you to UNDERSTAND?!"

Sherlock spins on his heel and walks into the living area, where he begins pacing the room like he often does while agitated or bored.

John hurries after him, shouting now.

"Sherlock, this isn't okay! You are as thin as a bloody rail; I can see your ribs when you're in a dressing gown, this is not 'perfectly fine', this is the EXACT. OPPOSITE."

Sherlock continues pacing, trying his best to block out John's angry voice and his equally angry thoughts.

 _Sherlock, you really fucked up good, now who knows what will he find out next: the cutting, the attempts, the depression? Fucking hell Sherlock..._

"Sherlock..." John's voice is soft now. Sherlock stops in his tracks. "Why? Why would you do this? Please tell me."

"I already told you. I'm not repeating my weakness again. Goodnight John."

And with that, Sherlock disappears into his bedroom.

 _ **John**_

John stares after Sherlock, speechless. Never mind it being only 6 in the evening, much too early to go to bed, but Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, thought himself weak! John shakes his head with disbelief.

Suppose I'll try to get some information out of him (and some food into him) tomorrow.

John paces back to his bedroom, muttering to himself all the way.

 ** _~Several days later~_**

 _ **John**_

John sits at the table, scanning his computer screen without really absorbing much information.

Sherlock had been sitting on the sofa for the past hour, presumably in his mind palace; he shoots up without warning and declares,

I'm "JOHN. I'M BOOORREEEEDDDDDDDDD!"

John's knee rockets up in reaction and he knocks his cup of tea over.

"Blimey, Sherlock, a bit of warning wouldn't kill you, would it?" he says, mostly to himself as Sherlock was already up and pacing.

"There's nothing to do! There's no new cases-"

"Actually, I was just reading that Jemima Drew's aunt was killed-" John interjects

"It was her husband. It always is, isn't it? That's not the point though, I-"

"What about Norbert's fiancée, eh? She was accused of committing-"

"Arson, yes, I know, she actually was guilty of that, you could smell the lighter fluid from miles away; amateur..."

John throws up his hands in exasperation. "Well what would you like me to do, Sherlock; I'm not your entertainer, go find something to busy yourself with, for cripe's sake..."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at his flatmate and whirls around into his bedroom, from which music could be heard a short while later.

John shakes his head and returns to listlessly scanning the Internet for possible cases. His eyelids begin to droop after a bit longer, and he is pulled into sleep.

 _ **Sherlock**_

Sherlock plays a lively tune on his violin, taking great sweeping strides around the room and relishing the way the bow vibrates on some of the deeper chords.

After a bit, though, he grows bored, as Sherlock often does.

He sets his violin down after wiping the rosin off its strings carelessly. His eyes drift over to the box beneath his bed.

 _No_. He tells himself very clearly: _No._

He would not do this. He would not do this to John. He would not do this to his John.

His John? Where had that thought come from?

No matter, it was still settled. He would not do it. He would not worry John any further.

But still...

 _ **John**_

John wakes up with a start, going from 0 to 100 in 3 seconds the way he had always done ever since he found out about Sherlock's...disorder...

He holds his breath, listening for something he can't hear, but what was it?

His violin...

Hadn't Sherlock been playing when he fell asleep?

John resists the urge to jump to his feet and scour the apartment for his friend. Instead, he gets up slowly and casually, and strolls about the flat.

He comes to Sherlock's door after checking every other room.

"Sher-" His voice catches on the name, throat dry from worry. He tries again, louder. "Sherlock?"

He hears, to his relief, footsteps pad across the room and stop in front of the bedroom door. The door opens a crack.

"What, John?" Sherlock asks impatiently.

"N-nothing. Just wanted to know where you were is all." And with that John turns and quickly walks back to the kitchen.

He felt a relief as if he had avoided something potentially catastrophic, but he didn't know what. But he had a feeling he would know soon enough.

 _ **Sherlock**_

It's been two weeks, two days, thirteen hours, and-Sherlock checks his watch-nine minutes since the John discovered him in the bathroom puking his guts up. Sherlock had been able to avoid further discussions about food by eating in John's presence, and leaving the house a few minutes later and vomiting in the alleyway. Sherlock knew for a fact that John knew what he was doing, and he knew that John would bring it up again, but not right now.

"Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock!" John's voice cuts through his thoughts. Sherlock snaps to attention and tries to look indifferent, despite his mounting anxiety. "What?" he says, rather irritably.

John briefly looks hurt, which sends an unwelcome jab of guilt through Sherlock.

"Well...I was just saying that I know what you've been doing every time you leave after you eat. You've been making yourself sick. Now-don't interrupt me Sherlock or I swear to God I'll kill you," he adds with venom when Sherlock's mouth opens to argue. "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that if you don't start eating, I'm...I'm going to tell Mycroft." He finishes with a forced finality.

Sherlock feels nothing for a moment. Then, rage edged with fear fills him.

"No, John, you can't. You can't tell Mycroft. He won't understand, he'll just lock me up again, I can't do that, I physically can't-"

"What do you mean, 'again'?" John interrupts, looking hard at Sherlock.

Sherlock freezes, realizing his mistake. As he tries to backpedal, John throws his hands up.

"Right, well I'm off to find Mycroft, you stay here and don't burn the house down."

"No, John, you can't-"

"Yes, Sherlock, I can! And I bloody well will! I can't have you do this to yourself, you mean too much to me." John says, looking at the floor when he said the last bit.

"What? What do you mean?" Sherlock asks suspiciously.

"Nothing. See you later Sherl." John turns and leaves, and this time Sherlock lets him.

John's been gone for an hour.

 _This is bad, this is so so BAD..._ Sherlock paces the flat, vaguely wondering if there was a path forming from his shoes treading the carpet so often.

Finally, Sherlock can't take it anymore. He strides over to his bedroom and throws the door open, stooping to pick up the gray cardboard box stowed under his bed, and locks himself in his bathroom. The voices in his head scream at him that John will find out, John will lock him up, this is the exact reason he should be locked up, he was crazy, he was downright certifiable- _shutupshutupshutupSHUT UP_ Sherlock screams at them internally. His fingers shake as he opens the Ziplock bag of assorted razor blades, pulled from pencil sharpeners, shaving razors, and replacement Xacto knife blade packets.

Sherlock pauses as he picks up a yellow box cutter. He debates whether to cut a little or a lot. A little would be less noticeable, but a lot would feel better...hell, it might even kill him, if he were lucky.

Sherlock decides 'to hell with it' and starts carving.

His skin is so marked that he doesn't even bother finding a clean spot and he goes to town on his arm.

One cut after another, blood running down his arms, congealing and clotting into strings hanging from his forearm. Somewhere along the way he got the wonderful idea to just...let go. End it all. Cut too deep.

So he did.

He places the blade on the slightly pulsing vein standing out against his pale skin. The veins were easy to find since he drank so much water instead of eating, so they stuck up and presented themselves for the taking.

He breathed in once...exhaled...and...

"Sherlock!" Sherlock hears his name being called by John.

"Sherlock!" And Mycroft. Great.

Sherlock is caught in a moment of indecision. Should he do it? They might find him. They might lock him away forever.

This is the very definition of being stuck between a rock and a hard place, Sherlock thinks.

He hears footsteps pounding down the hallway toward his bedroom and makes a split second decision: he is not going back to Riverside.

He makes the cut as the door bursts open. He turns to face the panic-stricken and horrified faces of Mycroft and John, the latter almost breaking his heart. There wasn't much left to break at this point.

"Sherlock!" His name reverberates inside his skull for what may be the last time as he closes his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3 - Heaven

_**John**_

John paces the hospital waiting room floor, too agitated to sit still. What was he _thinking_ , leaving Sherlock at home?! Now he was in the hospital, barely breathing, possibly _dying_ -

 _No, stop it, John_ , he reprimands himself. He will not let his mind go down that road.

He stops pacing momentarily and stares hard at the heavy wood doors that lead to the main part of the hospital, as if he can will the doors open.

John gives a little jump when the doors actually do open, and a short black nurse with pretty streaked red hair pokes her head out.

"Ah, John? John Wa-"

"That's me," John says, slightly out of breath with fear and anticipation.

The nurse-Tamara, according to the plastic card looped round her neck, looks slightly startled at John's anxiousness, but recovers quickly and gestures to the hallway behind her.

"He's awake...not sure how, really, seeing as we heavily sedated him; wouldn't stop thrashing, poor bloke. Anyway," she continues hastily, seeing the alarm on the older man's face. "he's been asking for you. Come with me."

John swallows his fear, like he did when he was in the army.

Only this time, it's a different kind of war.

 _ **Sherlock**_

Black.

That's the first thing Sherlock sees. For a minute, he thinks he's dead, that he's finally done it.

 _But isn't Heaven white? Or am I in Hell? Wouldn't that be red? What if there's nothing after death?_

Sherlock had never believed in Heaven, or God, or the Devil, or any of that religious mumbo jumbo. He believed in what he could see, what he could deduce. The voices in his head had never told him about Heaven, and they've been right about everything else so far...

All this thinking is over in a split second, of course, but a split second is all it takes to bring reality crashing down on you. The pain in his forearms, especially his left one. The achiness of his head and eyes, the clenching of his empty stomach.

He forces one eye open, then the other.

White.

He focuses on the room, picking out objects and shapes that sharpen into focus after a few seconds.

He was in a hospital.

Sherlock tips his head back against the thin sheet stretched across the plastic encased foam of the hospital bed, and lets out an audible groan. He hated hospitals.

He looks down at himself, at his hospital gown-clad body covered by a thin cotton blanket. His rib cage is discernible even under the blanket, which shoots a little wave of satisfaction through him, even under the current circumstances.

A busty brunette nurse in kitten printed scrubs opens the door and Sherlock's head snaps up to see her, sending a wave of dizziness over him. The nurse breaks into an annoyingly fake smile and launches into a greeting.

Sherlock cuts her off, "I need to see John."

The nurse's smile freezes on her face, clearly annoyed that she was interrupted. Sherlock didn't care.

"I nee to see John," he repeats himself, "Now."

"O-okay," she hurries out of the room, clicking the door shut behind her.

 _ **John**_

The nurse and John navigate a warren of corridors and identical doors, familiar to John because he worked there. The stop at the one marked 221. John smiles grimly despite himself.

Tamara opens the door and John enters, afraid at what he might see.

What he does see just about breaks his heart.

Sherlock is sitting on the bed, looking so small and broken and lost. He looks up at John through eyes heavy with shame and sadness and terrible, heart wrenching, soul-tearing _pain_.

Sherlock looked terrible. He was frighteningly thin, pale skinny arms attached to bony shoulders by nothing more than sinew, his rib cage clearly visible even beneath the hospital blankets. He was deathly pale, his eyes ringed with dark purple bruises, his normally curly, ebony hair falling into greasy clumps on his forehead. John's heart ached so badly he didn't think it would be possible to feel okay ever again.

How could he let this happen? How could he? He should have stopped him, should have forced him to eat something, he should have told him he loved him-

 _Wait_.

"John."

Sherlock's voice cut through his inner chaos, hoarse and cracked from disuse.

"Y-yeah Sherl?"

"I'm-I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice came out small and broken, tears glistened (but did not fall) on the waterline of his icy blue eyes. Eyes that were now the color of a windless ocean. Gray. Flat. Dead.

John couldn't take it any longer. He ran over to Sherlock and threw his arms around his flatmate. He hugs him as tight as he dares, mindful of the IV on his right arm and the bandages on his left.

"Sherlock."

 _ **John**_

"He's severely underweight; we've found multiple self-inflicted wounds, including hundreds more old scars along his arms, legs, and stomach; as well as corrosion on his teeth from the acid produced when he purges; and to put it quite frankly, Dr. Watson, I'm surprised he's still alive."

Tamara is briefing John on the condition of Sherlock; the pair of them hovering outside his door, which in John's opinion was unwise; Sherlock could most likely hear them.

John nods slowly, trying to discern where the conversation was going.

Tamara takes a deep breath and says, "We think he might benefit from going to Riverside Achievement Center."

John's heart skips a beat. "Y-you mean the _psychiatric hospital_?! _That_ Riverside?! You can't be serious Tamara, you can't expect Sherlock to go to a loony bin!"

The nurse winces at his loud tone and motions her hand downward to quiet him.

"He'll go crazy there! Like, actually crazy!" John hisses through clenched teeth.

Tamara sighs and throws her hands up in the air. "Okay then, John, what do you suggest? Discharge him, take him home, and then have him end up here again after cutting too deep or starving too long? John, Sherlock could DIE. He almost did today. How would you feel if you knew you could have sent him somewhere to help, but didn't, and he died?"

John's face is drained of all color, his breaths coming shallow and irregularly. He can't imagine what his life would be without Sherlock. He didn't want to. "Don't...don't say that...please..."

"Well, it's true! I didn't tell you all this to ask for your permission; Sherlock is a legal adult, it's not your decision. I told you this because I need you to convince him to go. He won't go by himself. He's already been there once, against his will, and this time won't do any more good unless he makes the decision himself. Can you do that, John?"

John's mouth is too dry and his throat is too tight to say anything, so he nods his head yes.

Tamara sighs deeply, visibly relieved. "Thank you John."

"Don't mention it." John replies.

 _ **Sherlock**_

Sherlock heard every word. He was not going to Riverside. He would make sure of that.


	4. Chapter 4 - Angst and Johnlock

_**John**_

John and Sherlock sit in the backseat of a cab, driving home for the first time since Sherlock was admitted. The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on. Sherlock glances to make sure the sliding plastic window between them and the driver is closed.

"John-" Sherlock starts.

"Not just now," John cuts him off shortly. He wasn't in the mood for talking to Sherlock at this time. He was still angry, still worried, and worst of all-still scared.

"I was just-" Sherlock begins again.

"Not. Just. Now." John repeats himself.

The rest of the ride passes in uncomfortable silence.

When they arrive home, Sherlock retreats to his room. John opens his mouth to call him back, but the door is shut and that damn violin is playing before he can say anything.

John bites the inside of his cheek and turns his gaze to the phone book directory opened to the R section. He sits at the table and dials.

 _ **Sherlock**_

Sherlock plays a whiny, somber tune on his violin, taking sweeping strides around the room to assuage his panic. He is struck with an acute sense of deja vu: here he is, a month after John found out about _it,_ playing his violin. There was a certain irony or full-circle feeling to it, but Sherlock doesn't care to try and name it.

How was he going to convince John not to make him go to Riverside?

 _Probably the same way he's going to try to make you go there,_ Sherlock realizes _, first, probably avoidance of the topic while passive aggressively forcing me to eat, and then casually bringing it up, which of course will cause an argument..._

Sherlock's brain was buzzing with possible scenarios that could happen-from John leaving him be to him getting sectioned (again)-and the outcomes of each, when he realizes that each of these scenarios have one thing in common: John confronts him.

Sherlock stops playing and straightens his coat. He tries not to notice how tightly it fit over his distended stomach-a product purely of the hospital's IV nutrient drip.

He pushes his mind off his clothing so that he can face the challenge at hand: He was not going to let John have the upper hand. He would have to bring the fight to John.

 ** _John_**

"Hello, you've reached Riverside Achievement Centre, this is Riley, how may I help you?" An annoyingly chipper voice that reminded John of a starling answered the phone after nearly a minute of ringing.

"Hi, yes, this is John Watson-"

"Are you looking to check in or visit? Cause if you want to visit you need to call Tina at extension 40-"

"No," John cuts her off frustratedly, "I'm not visiting anyone." Not yet.

"I just need to know how to book someone in who...isn't very...keen on the idea," John says carefully.

"Oh, well, if they're over 18 then they can't be forced to come, even if they need to, unfortunately." John detects a hint of sadness in Riley's voice. He wonders what exactly put it there.

"That's fine then. I don't know what answer I was expecting, to be honest," John says, his sad tone matching hers almost exactly. "Thanks, Riley."

"Anytime, love." The phone clicks off.

John sighs and turns to face Sherlock's door. He almost falls off his seat when he sees his flatmate there, clearly having heard every word of the conversation.

"Oh, um, hi, Sherlock, ah-"

"Don't start with me John," Sherlock states icily, striding to sit across from him at the table.

John is surprised; he didn't expect Sherlock to speak to him for a few days at least.

"So." Sherlock says. "What do I have to say to get you to not make me go to Riverside."

 _Jumping straight to the point, I see,_ John observes.

John sighs, utterly exhausted. Little did Sherlock know that John hasn't slept since he was admitted a week ago, and very little in the three weeks before.

"Sherlock, there's nothing you can say-"

"Then what, John? What can I do?"

"Well, for starters, you can tell me about all this shit that's been going on behind the scenes and all your life! What happened Sherl? What went so wrong that you had to starve yourself, to cut yourself, to-to deliberately hurt your beautiful body and mind?!" John freezes for a moment in horror at what he said about Sherlock's body, but soon regains his composure and pushes on.

"Sherlock, the nurse said you could have died. Do you want that? Answer me, Sherlock. Do you want to die?"

Sherlock, who has remained uncharacteristically quiet until now, says almost inaudibly,

"Yes."

John's heart catches in his throat, and the air rushes out of his lungs. Sherlock, the world's greatest (albeit only) consulting detective, the most brilliant man alive, his best friend, didn't want to be alive. John feels the tears threatening to spill over, but he knows that breaking down won't do anything beneficial.

"Sherlock...you can't really...you can't really mean that..."

"Can't I? Can't I, John?" Sherlock's voice begins to rise. "Why do you get to be the judge? Why? Why do you get to be the one who decides what's best for me, what I want, what I mean, what I don't mean?" Sherlock is full on shouting now, and somewhere in the back of John's terrified mind he realizes this is not just about his previous incredulity.

"Ever since I was four years old, I was a freak," Sherlock hisses, lightning sparking in his stormy gray eyes. "My parents sent me to hospitals-in and out and in again until I lost count of the tallies I scratched into the walls of the rooms and lost track of what was home and what was hell, and cutting became a high better than any narcotic I've used, and starving a better liquor than any I've ever consumed." Sherlock's voice is lowering to a whisper as he says, "And you know what John? I didn't care. I didn't care if I lived or died, hell, dying would probably be a bonus." Sherlock's eyes take on a hollow, haunted look and John can feel his heart breaking.

"Sherlock..." John starts, but before he can continue, Sherlock is talking again.

"The nurses stopped caring after a while, too. They wouldn't say anything when I came out from my room with new cuts in plain sight on my arms. They stopped making notes on their clipboards when I didn't eat. Their solution to my suicide attempts was to strap me down and sedate me until I was deemed 'safe'. I was unfixable. I was incurable." Sherlock lets out a mirthless laugh. "Even you think that. I know you do."

John didn't think his heart could break any further, but it did. It fell apart in his chest and blood seeped out of his pores and turned to tears and fell from his eyes. Sherlock eyes hold no light, looking right through him and no doubt seeing invisible demons on the other side. John does the only think he can think to do, and that is to grab the detectives angular face and press his lips against his own, willing Sherlock to feel the need and desperation and overwhelming feeling and unnamable emotion coursing through his system. Tears run hot and fast, falling into his and Sherlock's mouth, salt pricking at their tastebuds and silent sobs racking John's frame.

The detective shows no sign of acknowledgement that John even moved at all.

John pulls back, wipes his tears off his face (and the feeling of Sherlock's lips from his mouth) and turns to the bedroom.

Sherlock just stares at the wall.

 ** _Sherlock_**

When John is safely in his room, the detective touches his lips softly, savoring the feeling of the moisture on his lips, the taste of John and tears on his tongue, the memory of John's hazel eyes filled with tears-tears cried for him and him alone-and the sickening, spiraling feeling that he had missed his chance.

Sherlock stands up, walks to the phone, and hits redial.


	5. Chapter 5 - Hello?

_Andrew_  
"Hello, you've reached Riverside Achievement Center, this is Andrew, how may I help you?" Andrew answers the phone in his falsely cheery voice he was being paid to use.

The voice in the other line is silent for a minute, then speaks in a low voice,

"Hello, Andrew. I'm looking to..." The voice falters a bit. Andrew suppresses a sigh; he would be done with his shift after this call and he was eager for the guy to hurry it along.

"I'm looking to check myself in." The man says with a finality. Andrew nodded, then remembered that the bloke couldn't see him.

"All right, sir, may I ask your name?" "Sh-Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

Andrew scribbles his name down before saying, "Okay, Mr. Holmes, you need to come to our main complex on building 310 on High Street in London, all right? We have a couple beds left, we should be able to fit you in."

The voice sighs in what could be relief, or resignation, and thanks Andrew before hanging up. Andrew pulls on his coat, shaking his head, "So many suffering souls and not nearly enough kindness to save them all." *** _John_  
John sits in his room, staring at the wall. He is faintly aware of dried tear tracks on his cheeks, but doesn't care enough to get up and wash them off. Maybe if he just stays there, and never moves, then he won't have to face Sherlock's haunted eyes again. Maybe if he slows his breathing and heartbeat to a crawl, and lets static fill his mind, then he won't have to remember the words Sherlock said and the deadness of his voice. If he could just stay there forever, he might be able to forget the way his lips crashed against Sherlock's and begged for love but remained unrequited. John's eyes burn, but he doesn't want to close them in fear of seeing the detective's gaunt and tortured face.

A door slams, jerking him out of his waking nightmare. John startles a bit, before sighing shakily and poking his head out the door.

Sherlock was gone. *** _Sherlock_  
Sherlock strides down Baker Street, not bothering to hail a cab despite the fact High Street was 12 blocks away. His collar is turned up against the wind, keeping the cold out of his face but not out of his heart. His mind is dead right now, which is a 180° whip around from the constant buzzing and muttering of his freight train brain, the constant whispering of deductions of people he passed by on the street. Silence has fallen over him, and that's when he knows he has made the right choice.

Half an hour later, he arrives at the Riverside Hospital ER. He signs himself in at the front desk, takes one of the sticky wristbands he has come to hate from the receptionist, and sits down in the waiting room.

He catches sight of a little girl, no older than 7, staring at him. He finds himself smiling at her youthful innocence, and then he realizes that one day, she could be him. She was a girl, after all, and much more likely to become weighted by depression and anxiety and the feeling of never being good enough. One day she might look in the mirror and hates what she sees, seeing fat where there is none, and finding imperfections that no one else notices. She might one day resort to a blade to escape, maybe diet pills to make her pretty.

Sherlock looks away because he doesn't want to see what he used to be before this. Finally, when the sun has nearly kissed the horizon, a tired looking nurse calls his name,

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock nods and stands, joints popping and muscles complaining from being seated for so long.

"Right this way, sir."

And for the first time, Sherlock comes willingly through those doors. ~ **Many** **hours** **later** ~ "Well, Mr. Holmes, this is your unit. I trust you know where everything is?"

Sherlock nods, pulling at the plastic bracelet encircling his wrist. "This is hardly my first time, Lawrence, don't treat me like a child."

Lawrence laughs, "And here I was thinking you had changed, Sherlock. I should have known better."

Sherlock feels a smile tugging at his mouth. Lawrence had always been a friend to him at this place. Sherlock walks into the dayroom where the patients are sat eating their evening snack. His heart jumps into his throat and he stops dead in his tracks. Food.

The patients seated at the table look up at him curiously, and then resume eating after looking him over. Sherlock tried deducing them to calm himself down, but his mind was just buzzing with one word: food.

A nurse coughs, drawing his attention away.

"You are Sherlock?"

Sherlock nods, "Yes."

The nurse directs him in the direction of his fellow nutjobs and seats him, placing a pudding cup and a plastic box of juice in front of him, serving him as if he were a five year old at day care. Sherlock sits and says nothing. He knows that he won't be forced to eat on his first day.

The evening ends and Sherlock and the other patients are sent to their rooms for the night.


	6. Chapter 6 - From the Beginning

_John_

The flat had never seemed so empty.  
John literally has no idea what to do with himself while Sherlock is...away. He's been given time off at the hospital for "bereavement leave", but he knew it was mostly because his supervisors (correctly) thought he couldn't deal with the fact that Sherlock had been there not two days ago, barely clinging to life.  
John sighs. Cases weren't much hope without Sherlock, and although he knows it would help, he doesn't try to contact anyone such as Ms. Hudson or Mary.  
 _Mycroft...  
_ John is struck by this idea. Certainly not for comfort, just to know how the hell Sherlock had gotten this bad.  
He reaches for his phone, but he draws back in surprise as it starts ringing of its own accord.  
"Hello?" His voice cracks a little from disuse.  
"John, I was wondering when you'd call. Meet me at the restaurant on High Street by the Fox & Hound pub in three minutes. Ta."  
The line clicks off, leaving John slightly annoyed at the pretension of Sherlock's older brother, but mostly glad because he didn't have to ask for Mycroft's help. Instead, it was being offered to him.  
John hails a cab and makes it to the restaurant in 4 1/2 minutes, which is sure to piss the other man off, but John doesn't care. All he cares about is Sherlock.  
"You're late," Mycroft states predictably.  
"Well spotted, Mycroft. I see where Sherlock got his deduction skills," John retorts, unable to hide the saltiness that stress was inducing.  
Mycroft uncharacteristically stays silent, his gaze going right through John.  
"John," he begins after a minute of uncomfortable silence, "I'm sure you know why I called you here, we both knew this was going to happen eventually, but now that it's happening, I don't quite know what to say."  
John sits in the booth seat across from Mycroft and clasps his hands together in front of his mouth, inhaling deeply through his nose. "Just...just tell it to me from the beginning. Everything. I want to hear it all."  
"I think it would be best if Sherlock-" Mycroft begins, but John cuts him off.  
"Sherlock has proven that he doesn't know what's best. I need to know everything, Mycroft."  
Mycroft nods, "Well said. I guess I better start at the beginning, shouldn't I?"  
John says nothing, allowing Mycroft to go on,  
"Sherlock was a rather troubled child. He was incredibly intelligent, as you might guess, but this caused more problems than it resolved. He...he heard voices. Deductions. He used to tell me that he could find everything out about someone just from what the voices told him. Needless to say, this did not go over well when my parents found out. They had him sent to a psych hospital at the ripe old age of four, and while he was there he developed a pattern of hitting himself when he heard the voices, trying to train himself not to hear them. It didn't work, as you can see, but hitting developed into pinching, which evolved into scratching and using friction from rubbers to burn himself, which eventually led to cutting and starving. It was a form of punishment, really, and then an addiction, just as much if not more so than narcotics and cigarettes. You know..." Mycroft says shakily, his emotions threatening to break through his well-constructed dam of narcissism and intelligence, "I used to envy him. The way he could do things like that to himself and be seemingly unaffected by it. Me, I prefer to let others do my work so I don't have to get my hands dirty, which I suppose can be seen as cowardly. But Sherlock, he had an amazing will. He wasn't in control of his life in the slightest, but he was bound and determined to do whatever the task at hand was, be it finding something to cut with or devising ways to lose weight without us knowing, or recovering. He always wanted to recover, I know he did. I think that's the one thing he didn't know how to do, though. Admit he was wrong. Admit that there was something wrong with him."  
John's color had completely drained from his face, and a lump was constricting his throat with tears that he swore he would not shed.  
"Mycroft..." John says, not even sure where to begin.  
"Don't, John. Your emotions are too high for you to say anything remotely reasonable right now. You need to-"  
"I love him, Mycroft." John blurts. He didn't mean to, but it was out there now with no way to unsay it.  
Mycroft blinks, but soon regains his composure, "Well. I can't say I'm not surprised, but I didn't expect you to come right out with it. Good job, I suppose, getting him to love you back. He does, I'm sure of it," he adds, seeing the shocked look on John's face, "not many-or any for that matter-of Sherlock's admirers weren't unrequited. However, getting Sherlock to admit to himself he loves you...that's going to be something else entirely."  
John doesn't know whether to shout or cry or laugh, Sherlock loves him too! As long as this remains true, they can battle through anything together. John feels warmth expanding in him, and for the first time in a long time, he feels hope.  
"Right. So, good chat" Mycroft stands to leave, and John begins to follow him out the door, but as they part ways, Mycroft reaches out and catches his jacket sleeve.  
"John..." Mycroft says, his voice brimming with uncharacteristic emotion, "Please visit him. He's going to act like he doesn't want you to, but he does. He really does. He won't want me there, I'm too much like him, but you...you are what he needs right now."  
John nods, the army part of him recognizing the orders being given to him. "Yes, sir." he says softly.  
Mycroft smiles slightly, not enough to be classified as happiness, but enough to serve as a thank you.  
The two part ways, off to fight the coming war. 


	7. Chapter 7 - The Mind of a Sociopath

_Sherlock_  
 _Bored bored boredboredboredbORED!_

Sherlock paces his room-cell, really-about ready to smash his head in with the desk in the southwestern corner of the 20.75 x 15.1 sized room.

Sherlock had forgotten how boring these hospitals were. That was the hardest part. Being alone with his freight train of a mind with nothing to distract himself with.

Sherlock pauses, hearing footsteps outside his closed door. He opens the door and pokes his head out, blatantly breaking the rules but Sherlock is not able to care less.

"It's just me, Sherlock. Go back to your room," Lawrence says with a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Group is in ten minutes, so just sit tight." Lawrence gives Sherlock a sympathetic look, which irritates Sherlock, but he's too grateful about being given a time limit to really dwell on it.

 _One Mississippi, two Mississippi..._  
Sherlock begins to count the seconds in his head. Patients weren't allowed a watch, which Sherlock saw as pointless, as he was much more likely to want to smash his head in if he didn't know how long he was sitting in a cell.

Ten agonizing minutes pass, and then five more, and Sherlock feels as if he's going to explode. He gets up from his bed and looks out the tiny window that provides a limited view of the hall he was located in.

Lawrence is already there, opening the door to a startled Sherlock.

"Christ, Sherlock, you about gave me a heart attack!" Lawrence laughs, clutching his chest in mock fright. Sherlock feels a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. Lawrence had always made Sherlock's stays a little more bearable.

Lawrence escorts Sherlock and the other patients into a room on the other side of the hospital. A balding man-Mr. Wally, Sherlock remembers-with spectacles on the end of his rat-like nose sat in a chair with several other chairs arranged in a semi circle in front of him.

"Ah, Sherlock!" he says, surprised, "I didn't know you were back again."

Sherlock nods coolly and says nothing.

"And haven't changed a bit, I see," the man says resignedly.

"People never do, do they?" Sherlock replies easily, his mouth wanting to smile again.

Mr. Wally flashed a funny, lopsided grin at Sherlock and turned his attention to the group, who had seated themselves and were looking at Mr. Wally expectantly.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to group! I see a couple new faces, so..."

Sherlock tunes Mr. Wally out like he had done so many times before, and delves into his mind palace.

As he wanders the halls of his mental kingdom, he is suddenly assaulted by memories. Memories of John.

Images flash by, each one so fast that even Sherlock couldn't differentiate between the individual memories.

 _I am rushing into Lestrade's lab, excited about the serial suicides, rattling off a string of deductions to piss him off, and take no notice of the army doctor leaning on an unneeded cane. Suddenly, through all the chaos, one word prevails- "Brilliant." I am staring into piercing blue eyes, and the owner asks me, "Do you have one? A girlfriend, I mean." "No." "A boyfriend, then?" "While I am flattered by the offer, I consider myself married to my work-" Panic floods through the_ _hazel_ _irises and I realize my mistake. I am standing on the roof of a ten story building. I see John looking around, so many feet below, a phone pressed to his ear. I manage to say goodbye, my throat closing up as I struggle to breathe. Suddenly, I'm falling, the wind whipping my coat as I plummet to my death, the sound of John shouting my name the only thing I could hear. My mind is ablaze with noise and demons plague my vision. Insanity is threatening to take me, when I feel a pair of lips on mine, cutting through the panic, breaking through the fear. I'm took startled to kiss back, but I can taste the salt of the tears and the heat of John and the taste of John and the feeling of John and John- "Sherlock." "Sherlock."_  
"Sherlock!" Mr. Wally's voice penetrates Sherlocks inner chaos and Sherlock sits bolt upright immediately.

"Yes?" he replies with more venom than necessary. "It's your turn."

"My turn? "My turn? For what, sorry?"

Mr. Wally sighs, all too used to the bag of cats that was Sherlock's brain. "We are going around introducing ourselves and saying two reasons why we're here-"

"Pass," says Sherlock indifferently.

Mr. Wally opens his mouth to say something, but closes it almost immediately. "All right, next...Amanda, is it?"

Sherlock begrudgingly gives his attention to the bone-thin woman with faded purple hair sitting next to him, if not just to keep his mind off a certain hazel-eyed somebody. *** _John_  
John stares at the visitation application that had been faxed to him from Riverside. The logo of a waterfall glares at him from the top corner of the paper.

John doesn't know why he's so hesitant to fill it out. He knows Sherlock won't decline it. But what if he does?

"Shut up," John mutters to the nagging voice in his head. "He won't."

John realizes, once again, how empty the flat is. He misses how Sherlock would sit and stare at the wall for hours on end, absorbed in his mind, but his presence still emanated a sort of comfort for John. He misses how Sherlock would stay up till ungodly hours and play that damn violin, long, wailing melodies that modeled a cat's crying.

But most of all, John misses the way Sherlock looked at him. The way he'd allow just a little emotion-just a little, not very much-into his eyes and a smile would crinkle the corners of his sea green eyes and a smirk would play across his lips when Sherlock realized John was looking at him the same way. John can't believe he didn't see that before.

And the kiss. John had tried time and time again to formulate how the kiss would have turned out in any other circumstances, how it would have played out if Sherlock hadn't been on the edge of madness. John tried not to be hurt when Sherlock didn't kiss back, but really, how would anyone feel in that sort of situation? John was only human, after all.

John sighs and resolutely begins filling out the form. Mycroft had been right before, surely he could be right again.

John finishes the application, scans it, and sends the copy back to Riverside.


	8. Chapter 8 - Visiting Hours

_John_

John fidgets nervously at the front doors of Riverside as he waits for the nurse to open up the electronically locked doors leading to the visitation wing of the hospital.  
"First visit?" the nurse asks him sympathetically.  
"Yeah," John says tightly. "First visit. Not even sure he wants to see me, to be perfectly honest."  
The nurse nods as the door clicks open and he pushes the solid doors back with with a solid click-thump.  
The doors open to a large, open space which John recognizes to be a cafeteria.  
As John scans the area for a tall beanpole with curly hair and sharp cheekbones, anxiety begins to set in his stomach. What if Sherlock had rethought his decision to allow John to visit? What if Sherlock didn't even show up, and leaves John standing there looking like an idiot for the next hour?  
Suddenly, John's eyes stop on one figure.  
Sherlock.  
"Sherlock..." John breathes, his head jackrabbiting in his chest.  
As John draws closer to the other man, he begins to notice that Sherlock looks bad. Like, really bad.  
His cheekbones stick out even more prominently; his hair hangs in his face and is stringy and wet, presumably with water; and John can see the blue veins in his painfully thin arms through his ghostly translucent skin.  
"Sherlock..." John says again, his eyes locked onto Sherlock. The younger man doesn't look up.  
"Hey. Sherl," John tries again, taking a seat in front of him, "I'm here."  
Slowly, Sherlock looks up at John through his thick lashes, and John's heart twists when he sees that same dead look in his eyes, accented by shame and self-hatred.  
"John," Sherlock greets dully, trying to force a cocky smile. "Fancy meeting you here."  
John laughs hollowly and smiles as well, "Yeah..."  
After a beat of awkward quiet, John and Sherlock explode in speech at the exact same time, eager to say something , anything to break the silence. They laugh nervously and John tells Sherlock to go first.  
"Well...I feel as if I should apologize for my actions," Sherlock begins, sounding as if he had rehearsed this speech several times, "I know I have caused a lot of undue concern and excitement, and I just wanted to-"  
"Rubbish, Sherlock," John interrupts him, "if anyone should be apologizing, it's me, I was the one who-"  
"Please, John. Let me say this. I need to say this." Sherlock cuts him off, a pleading look in his stormy gray eyes.  
John opens his mouth to argue back, but closes it after a moment.  
"What I'm trying to say is, John, no one is forcing you to be here. I am quite aware of my shortcomings, and yet you still are here. Why?"  
John blinks, thoroughly nonplussed. "Well, it's because I care about you, Sherl."  
Sherlock nods, chewing on this statement.  
"Why?"  
John lets out a bark of a laugh, shaking his head, "Why does anyone do anything, Sherlock? It's called being human, mate."  
Sherlock nods again, wheels turning in his head as he processes this information.  
"I...care...about you...too..." Sherlock says slowly, as if tasting the foreign words on his tongue.  
John want to laugh with joy at these words. Caring is one step closer to love, is it not?  
"Is that why you kissed me?" Sherlock asks, not meeting John's startled gaze, "Because you care about me?"  
John's heart begins beating faster, his hands feel clammy and sweat beads on his forehead.  
"I guess you could say that, yeah," John says slowly, choosing his words with extreme care, "although it was also because you scared the living daylight out of me Sherly. You looked so...dead inside. I wanted to give you a shock to snap out of it. It didn't work all that well, did it?"  
Sherlock lets out a mirthless laugh. "No, it appears not. Although," he added, his gaze slowly climbing to meet John's. John's stomach dips and he swallows nervously.  
"I found it rather enjoyable. It seems I am developing...an affection..for you. I don't quite know what to do with these unfamiliar and frankly alarming emotions. Are you experiencing them as well?"  
John imagines his face must be a sight to see at this point. He closes his mouth after realizing it had been gaping open for the majority of Sherlock's confession. He swallows again around the cotton in his throat and attempts speech,  
"Well-I don't-a little, but-I'm not..." John is rendered speechless and is at a loss for words as to how to explain to his sociopath of a flatmate that he loves him.  
Sherlock seems to be growing impatient, probably as a result of the uncharted waters the two were sailing, and it is making John flustered.  
"Just come out with it, John. I may not be emotionally apt but I'm not stupid. I just want to hear you say it."  
John takes a deep breath and says very purposefully the words he had been waiting years to say:

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I love you." 


	9. Chapter 9 - John and His Man Crush

_Sherlock_

Sherlock blinks twice, fully unprepared for what his flatmate said, even though he knew he was going to say.  
For a brief instant, Sherlock considers doing something cocky and arrogant and outright hurtful in order to conceal his scattered emotions, but instead he nods and presses his mouth into a thin line, searching John's face for some tell of a lie. He found none. Just pure anxiety and a hint of excitement.  
Should he be happy? Sherlock didn't know if he had ever felt truly happy; there was always the exhilarating thrill that came with chasing murderers through the streets of London, or the brief high he got from cutting or narcotics, and of course the pride associated with losing another ungainly pound, but this...this was different.  
"I..." Sherlock falters, trying to funnel the abstract thoughts in his mind into coherent speech, "I am not quite ready to say it."  
At John's visible wilted deflation Sherlock hastily adds, "I do feel the same way, John, but...I can't right now..I don't even know why I asked you to say it; I knew full well I wasn't prepared for it..."  
John nods and looks down, most likely to (unsuccessfully) hide the tears that Sherlock saw in his grey eyes.  
Sherlock feels an unfamiliar pang of emotion in his chest at seeing his flatmate so broken. _Although I can't imagine I look any better,_ Sherlock thinks wryly.  
"I understand, Sherl. I just wish you hadn't make me look like a fool for believing you would say it too."  
Sherlock nods and guilt wreathes its way into his gut and settles in the pit of his stomach like a cold rock.  
"I-I have to go-" John says abruptly and pushes his chair back roughly, stumbling slightly as he stands and leaves.  
Sherlock rises to his feet, fully prepared to run John down and apologize for everything he's ever done, but his hunger-weakened body doesn't comply and he is struck by lightheadedness and dizzying spots dancing in his vision, and he heavily sits back down. Once again, Sherlock curses the universe and its cockblocking.  
When his vision clears, John is gone through the electronically locked doors leading to freedom.  
Sherlock curses under his breath and tips his head back to rest on the wall behind him. His head resonated with voices telling him how bad he fucked up, how John would never come back to see him and how Sherlock would be at Riverside forever, never leaving and never seeing John again because of how fucking fucked-up he is, and Sherlock feels tears hot on his clammy face, so he gets up and does the thing he does best: run away.

***

 _John_

 _Stupid, stupid, fucking IDIOTIC USELESS FUCK UP JOHN!  
_ John paces outside the front doors of the hospital, cursing himself and every second he spent believing that Sherlock loved him too. He should be used to this by now! He shouldn't be so fracking upset over a man who has no capability to be with him. He shouldn't have dared hope that he might be love by a man who thinks love is a goddamn joke.  
John tries to take deep breaths and think rationally, but he realizes that nothing about the situation is rational. Love is irrational. That's probably why Sherlock has a hard time with it, John realizes. It is possible he loves him, but he just doesn't know how to express it.  
At this, John puts on his brave face that the army taught him how to utilize, and marches back into that hospital to reclaim his detective.  
Only, it was now 7:14pm. Visiting hours were over 14 minutes ago.  
John makes a noise of frustration and thunks his head solidly against the brick exterior of the hospital. He should have seen it coming, honesty. Murphy's Law at its finest, that's what it is.

As John catches a cab home, he plans in his head what to say to Sherlock the next evening.  
If he even shows up, that is.  
John pushes that thought away; Sherlock would be there. He had to be. Whether Sherlock knew it or not, he needs John.  
"Penny for your thoughts?"  
John is jolted from his seat. "P-pardon?"  
The cab driver looks at him in the rearview mirror.  
"Not that it's any of my business, but you've got a look on ya face that suggests something's t'matter,"  
The cabbie has a thick southern-London accent and a frankly chavvish appearance.  
John considers telling the man to piss off, but before he knows it he's spilling his guts out to the man.  
"There's this...man..." John cringes as he says his next words "whom I...love...and he's in a really bad way. A really, really, horrifically bad way. And...and he won't let anyone save him. He's the independent type, y'know? He wants to do it by himself. I don't even know if he wants to get better, honestly.  
"I think he's got it in his head that he's broken. Irreparably so. He thinks that no one can love him, because to him love is a joke. But I do. And I want to believe he does too, but how can a man who hates himself more than anything else be capable of loving? He's already a sociopath, for Christ's sake, and he is quite possibly the worst person, male or female, that someone could choose to love.  
"But I do. God, I love him. I want him to get better. I want him to leave that hospital a new man, or at least a man with some brightness of hope in him.  
"He made me say I love him, but he won't say it back. He doesn't think he's worthy of saying it back. I wish he could see himself through my eyes, but all he sees when he looks in the mirror is a distorted, disfigured reflection of the voices in his head and the cruelness of other people. God, he's perfectly, wonderfully beautiful, tragically enticing, just...wondrous. Amazing. But he doesn't know the half of it. He sees none of it. And that's enough to make anyone want to kill themselves...I just didn't think he would actually do it. Try, I mean. He's still alive...barely, but living. He's breathing. And that's going to have to be good enough for now."  
John's face is wet with tears, the air conditioning making the water seem like ice on his stony face. He's grateful for the cover of darkness that British winters provide; he doesn't want the cabbie to see him crying.  
The cabbie nods understandingly, seemingly unfazed by the story and the fact that John was apparently gay.  
"That's a right mess you've found yourself in, innit? 'Course, I'm in no better off meself, but I've been around the block a few times and I'll tell ya, I've seen you and that skinny bloke"-John cringes at the word 'skinny'-"runnin' around town, chasing robbers and baddies and murderers and all that and it gets me every time. Sometimes you and him sit in this very same cab after you've caught another crook, and I tell ya, the way he looks at you, it's love."  
John's mouth parts slightly, somewhat shocked that he and Sherlock were well known enough that even the cabbies knew them.  
"And I read your blog, too. You haven't updated in over two months. I knew somethin was t'matter, but I didn't know what. Now I know, I guess," he adds, rather somberly.  
John nods and looks up at the driver, and is surprised to see his eyes glistening with unshed tears.  
"I really shouldn't be talkin like this while I'm on the clock-bad for business, they say-but if you feel like you need to get somethin off ya chest, or an outsider's opinion, just call me and we'll take a drive. 221B, innit?" The man behind to scribble on a scrap of paper and John notices a picture with the cab driver and another man Blu-Tack'd on the dash.  
"Is that...?" John gestures to the photo.  
The cabbie looks to where John is pointing to, and chuckles when he sees.  
"No, that's not me boyfriend, it's my brother. They won't let me put him on a employee cab-bad for business." He laughs softly.  
John nods, his spirits slightly lifted. He even attempts at a smile as he takes the paper from the man and starts to rummage in his pocket for money.  
"Nah, no charge. Helping you was payment enough. Name's Harry, by the way. Here's me cell," Harry hands John a scrap of paper, "just call if you need. I work the evening shift but I keep me phone on me all the time. I wish good luck to you, John. I really do."  
John takes the paper gratefully and begins to ascend the steps to the door.  
"I believe in you, Sherlock," John said to the frosty night air. "And even if you don't believe in yourself, I do."  
John inhales deeply as he turns the knob to his painfully empty flat.  
 _I just hope that it's enough_. 


	10. Chapter 10 - Dear John

_John_

It's been two weeks since John visited Sherlock.  
Two long weeks of puttering about the flat, no new cases-not that he would be able to take them without Sherlock-and his boss was adamant that he was to stay away from the hospital until Sherlock recovers.  
John had been planning to visit every day, but after the stunt he pulled last time, making him say he loved him and then refusing to say it back, John didn't want a repeat of that. He was content to write him letters, even though he never got any reply.  
Sherlock was supposed to leave last Wednesday, but there was an incident involving smuggled razors and cheeked medication that ensured his stay for at least another month. John knows he can't expect Sherlock to recover overnight, but you'd think the bloke would at least try, you know?

John looks at the clock: 6:45pm. _15 minutes till visiting hours..._

He makes a split second decision and grabs his coat and walks out the door. After hailing a cab, he tells the cabbie to go to Riverside Hospital. He wasn't going to risk losing Sherlock just because he had been stupid enough to think that the man loved him.

When John arrives, he waits patiently until a disgruntled Sherlock shuffles into the visiting room

John is even more shocked than before to see Sherlock in the state he is. He was thinner than John thought was humanly possible, and his cheeks were sunken and hollow. John's heart twisted in his chest as he saw stained bandages peeking out from his flat mate's jumper.

"Hi." John says lamely.

"Hi." Sherlock replies, rather hesitantly.

"Um, how...how've you been?"

Sherlock nods, chewing on the question. "I've been all right, considering."

The two sit in silence for a moment before John blurts out, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know what went wrong at the last visit, but I don't want it to taint what good we have left. Please, I'm sorry..."

Sherlock nods again, the wheels in his brain turning slower than normal.

"I'm...I'm sorry too. John. I don't...I don't apologize a lot-or at all, really, but...I'm sorry." He finishes, the last two words a whisper.

After this, conversation turns to anecdotes and laughing, and it seems all is well with the world. However, Fate seemed determined to destroy the good they had.

***

 _Sherlock_

It was truly funny how dramatically things can turn on you.

As Sherlock lays in his bed, the thin hospital sheets twisted round his legs and sweat beading in his forehead, he is plagued by flashing memories and feelings barreling through his brain.

 _I'm four years old and I just found out the voices in my head aren't real. Mother is crying and Father is yelling. Suddenly I'm in a sterile room with one bed and a desk. I don't see my parents for another week. I fall asleep crying, the voices screaming ever louder._

 _I'm thirteen years old and I'm screaming so hard I feel my vocal cords tearing. My limbs and torso are strapped down on a bed, a plastic helmet squeezing my head, a needle slides into my arm, turning my world black._

 _I'm fifteen years old and now the voices are now helping me. Jimmy Mitchell is 5'8" and has three different breeds of cats and his mother is a chronic smoker and his dad beats him and his dog has fleas. Lindsey Gonzales has undiagnosed appendicitis and her shoes are half a size too small and she burned herself making scrambled egg with a lot of pepper and no salt.  
_  
Suddenly Sherlock sits bolt upright and the pictures and memories stop and are replaced with one thing: John.

 _I'm twenty-six years old and the army doctor I met a few years ago is now living with me. Every morning he makes me breakfast and every morning I refuse. His eyes catch mine and I quickly look away, stifling whatever emotion I may feel for the man. Suddenly his eyes dull and he is lying dead on the floor, blood pouring from his forearms-_

"No. Stop!" Sherlock cries out, the images dissolving and leaving him with a panicked look in his eyes as the night nurse opens his door.

"Mr. Holmes, are you all right?" He asks, one hand on the walkie talkie attached to his belt.

Sherlock has to swallow several times before he can make his voice work.

"I'm-I'm fine. Just a bad dream. Go away. Please..." he adds shakily.

The nurse nods, his hand leaving his belt. "Okay. Do you want to process with one of the counselors?"

"No. I'm fine. Go away." Sherlock snaps.

The nurse sighs and leaves, muttering something about being stubborn as a mule.

Sherlock leaps up and grabs a piece of paper and a crayon (he was on a no sharps restriction) and begins to write by the light of the moon: 

_Dear John..._


	11. Chapter 11 - Sarcasm and Sadness

_Sherlock_

 _Dear John...  
_  
Sherlock takes a breath, unsure of what to put next. He had never really been one for speaking from the heart, he was more of a precise, planned speech with notecards kind of man.

 _To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure what I'm writing you about. I feel like I need to apologize, but for what I am not sure. I guess I should start with me existing. I've been nothing but a burden my entire life, and I am stupid to believe I'm not one in yours.  
_  
Sherlock chews on his crayon a bit, spitting in disgust when he realizes it wasn't a pencil. He didn't know exactly how much to open up to John, and he didn't know what he was comfortable sharing. He decided to just quit thinking and let the words flow:

 _And I also need to apologize for being so difficult. It's hard to exist as I do, and I know that's no excuse, but please try to understand I am trying my hardest._

 _I know you're not one for repetitiveness, so I'm just going to say that I am sorry for all the undue distress and hurt I may have caused you over the years, and leave it at that._

 _Additionally, I think I better explain my position here. I know you and Mycroft have spoken, and I know he's told you what he thinks is wrong with me, but I want you to hear it from me, the source. I'm not one for anecdotes or life stories, but I'll tell you mine._

 _I'm sure Mycroft has explained the facts, about me hearing voices and how I used to hit myself and how I got in and out of hospitals for years, but I want you to know why I did that._

 _I can honestly say that there was never a time when I loved myself, or even remotely liked myself. When I was four, I had already been given several labels: broken, crazy, unloved, unmanageable, irreparably hopeless. It's hard to build your self worth from such shambles, isn't it? I suppose I could blame my self hatred on my circumstances, but I can't really absolve myself from the blame that easily. I dislike a multitude of things: people, stupitity, ignorance, politics, gender roles, children, etc. But I have never hated something with as much fierceness as myself. I'm not sure you can understand how much I loathe every molecule of my being, and I hope to God you won't ever have to._

 _As a result of this, I'm pretty certain that any love directed at me went unrequited. But there was one exception: you._

Sherlock pauses here, unsure if he should crumple this note up and trash it, or to keep going. Once he finished there was no going back; he never left things halfway done. On the other hand, he never gave up either. With a steady resolve, Sherlock marches forward.

 _It took me so long to recognize the emotions I associated with you. Took me even longer to accept them, and sometimes I can't even look you in the eye because I'm afraid of what you'll see: a broken man who isn't worthy of the emotion he's feeling._

 _I don't know what to do. All my life I've felt helpless, caught in the riptide of life. This is the first time I've taken control in a while. I don't want to lose you just because I was stupid enough to throw my life away just when things were looking up._

 _I guess this letter is a promise, from me to you. I'm not one for promises, seeing as I usually cannot keep them, but I promise you this: I am coming home, and I will try my hardest to recover. Be patient with me, because 30 years of hatred doesn't disappear in one night._

 _~Sherlock  
_  
Sherlock realizes that he is crying, and that several tears blot his paper.

"Fucking hell, what have you been reduced to, Sherlock? The slightest emotion turns you into a sniveling mess." He said to himself, smiling a little.

He folds up the letter carefully and puts in an envelope, sealing it for good measure, as the staff is required to check everything weekly.

Finally at peace, Sherlock closes his eyes and sleep takes him.

***

~the next day, 7:16 pm~

 _Sherlock_

He clutches the envelope in one hand, trying his hardest not to crumple it in his anxiety. His leg was shaking incessantly, and he was quite short of breath.

Finally, John walks in, allowing Sherlock temporary relief.

"Hello, Sherlock. You doing all right?"

Sherlock nods, and suddenly he is unsure. The letter he wrote was extremely out of character for him, and now he fears that John will expect him to be that way constantly. The voices start growing louder as his panic rises, and the only thing he can do is stutter out an apology and run to the nearest trash can.

He crumples the envelope and throws it in the trash as though it is on fire.

"Sorry about that, just had to throw something in the bin. You were saying?"

John eyes him suspiciously, but digresses, "Nothing, just asking how you are."

"Perfectly well, you?"

John raises his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Would it kill you to tell the truth every now and again?" He asks, rather snappily.

Sherlock has to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent from yelling at him that he was trying, and that he was ready to tell him until about five minutes ago, but her remains silent.

Finally, he speaks up. "Fine. I'm tired, the medication is hurting my head, and the stitches in my arm itch like hell. Is that what you wanted to hear, John?"

John looks rather taken aback, but nods slightly.

Sherlock exhales sharply and says "What about you? Sharing is caring, John," he adds with a smirk.

John smiles briefly and answers, "I'm managing. My best friend is in the hospital and wants to die, but somehow I have to hope that he won't hang himself in the middle of the night."

A spark of anger flares in the detective, and he retorts, "That sounds truly terrible, in fact, my best friend is quite the opposite. He's perfectly healthy and sound but he insists on taking burdens upon himself and playing the victim. Quite tragic, really." His voice is dripping with sarcasm.

John cringes (there's that horrible guilty feeling again) before saying in a lighter tone, "I'm your best friend?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and says "No, I was talking about the other person I spent all my time with."

John inhales deeply before speaking.

"Look, Sherl-"

"I'm not really interested in having a heart-to-heart at the moment, John. Leave your sympathies for someone who has a normal emotional range."

John looks briefly hurt, sending an arrow of regret through him-which he quickly smothered with anger-before retaliating,

"Sherlock. Listen to me. No, _listen_!" John raises his voice when Sherlock's mouth opens to protest.

"I've been worried _sick_ about you! I come home one day to see your blood and sick all over the bathroom floor, and I wait in the hospital for a week to make sure you're not dead, and then I fucking _kiss you a_ nd you do nothing because you are hurting so bad!

"Then I hear you're in a bloody mental hospital, and doing stupid shit like sneaking in razors and cheeking your meds, and I don't even know the full story until I talk to your brother, and he told me I'm the only one who can help you. So let me, Sherlock. Let me in. What am I supposed to do? How the hell can you expect me to sit idly by and watch you die?! I swear Sherlock, I will stay by your side forever but only if you let me. So what'll it be Sherlock?"

Sherlock had expected emotion to be coursing through him, but all he feels is emptiness. He supposes this is what the colour gray feels like.

"I...I don't know..." he murmurs, barely audible.

"Well you better fucking find out, because I'm losing you Sherlock. I'm losing you to the panic and the fear, and to the voices telling you you aren't good enough. You'll never lose me, but please, don't make me lose you. Not again." He adds, his voice breaking.

Sherlock nods, almost imperceptibly. "I'll...I'll tell you when I have an answer. I'm sorry."

John nods before storming out of the room.

Sherlock has never felt so empty in his life.

***

 _John_

As he watches Sherlock shuffle off to his prison (both mental and physical), he retraces his steps and reaches into the trash can, pulling out a violently crushed sealed envelope. He puts it in his pocket, opening it once he's in the cab and begins to read,

 _Dear John..._


	12. Chapter 12 - Snow

_Sherlock_

Snow was falling.

Sherlock stares out of his screened window at the fat flakes drifting through the inky darkness that British winters were so famous for.

He never got the appeal of snow. Little children squealed with delight, lovers sat on their front step huddled together, commenting on the beauty of the snow, but Sherlock never got it. It was just frozen water falling from the sky that turned to sludge on the sides of roads. Nothing magical, nothing special about it. Kind of like him, really.

A quick knock on the door startles him and he turns to see Lawrence standing in his doorway.

"Hey Sherlock, buddy, we have to go. Chow time, mate."

"Not hungry," Sherlock automatically says, even though he felt as if a wild animal was gnawing at his gut.

"Yeah, that won't work with me, Holmes. Maybe with the night shift nurse, but not me. Let's go."

Sherlock considered protesting but was too exhausted from his therapy session a half hour ago to come up with anything worth saying. He just hoped he would be rewarded for eating with a visit from John afterwards.

***

 _John_

After about a million times reading the letter, he was still undecided about whether to talk to Sherlock about it or not.

He decided at last that he would bring it up casually, but not force him to talk about it. That was a good idea, yeah? John hoped so.

Now 7 o'clock was approaching soon, so John threw on his coat and, after a moment of thought, he grabbed Sherlock's coat (not the scarf, seeing as it was against hospital rules to have anything resembling a rope).

Once he arrives, he scans the room for his flat mate.

"Hi, Sherlock." He says upon finding the man.

Sherlock looks up, and John wants to think that his eye bags were less deep and his face was fuller.

They chat for a while, about nothing of importance. After about half an hour, the conversation dies down and John decides to tell Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock, mate..."

Even through his exhaustion, Sherlock stiffens at the change in John's tone. He says nothing but indicates for John to continue.

"So...I wanted to say something-not talk about it, necessarily, but just, you know, bring it up-"

"Do stop yammering, John, it's annoying and very unattractive," Sherlock interrupts, shooting a look at the other man (was that fear in the detective's eyes?).

John blinks, his resolve weakening, but eventually spits out, "I got your letter. From the bin. The one you threw away a while back. I know you probably didn't want me reading it, but-"

"And you are correct, John Watson. Bravo. Let's leave it at that, shall we? I'll forget your blatant disregard for my privacy and you'll forget about everything that was written in that note. Sounds good, yes?" Sherlock spat out with icy cold venom.

John's face creases with anger and hurt for a minute, but he composes himself quickly. "Alright. No problem, mate. Just thought it would be a good idea-"

"Well it wasn't. Now stop talking about it or leave." Sherlock interrupts.

John nods slowly, processing. "Well, I don't suppose asking for a redo of the night you left would be too much to ask?"

Sherlock's face briefly flashes confusion before hardening in anger, "You want me to spill my tragic sob story again? Not happening."

John rolls his eyes, an exercise he was quite familiar with when dealing with his flat mate.

"No, you twat, I want a redo of the kiss. For being a genius you're awfully dense sometimes, mate."

Sherlock's face twists in an unidentified emotion for an instant before he spits out, "What makes you think I wanted to in the first place? You're projecting your emotions onto me. That's a thinking error, John, I learned that in my first round of hospitalizations."

John's heart squeezes a little, and his hurt must have been visible because the detective's face softens with guilt for a moment.

"Consider it a Christmas present. And compensation," John says.

"Compensation for what?"

"I don't know, Sherlock, maybe for making me sick with worry and guilt all the time? Maybe for the sleepless nights and horrible nightmares? Just to name a few." John says angrily.

"Oh yes, poor John, taking the sins of the world upon himself and then blaming others for his guilty conscience," Sherlock says, acid dripping from his words. "You're not Christ, John, no one is asking you to suffer for them."

John opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it, taking a deep breath instead.

"Sherlock," he says, forcing his voice to be even. "Please, kiss me."

Sherlock's face remains stone.

After a moment of tense silence, John shakes his head and sighs, standing to leave.

"You know what, sod that. I'm an idiot, always have been around you, so I think I'll just see myself out-"

Sherlock interrupts John by leaping to his feet, grabbing the other man's face, and pressing their lips together as if it were the last time they'd ever see each other.

John's eyes fly open, too stunned to react, then tangled his hands in Sherlock's thick ebony curls, returning the kiss with a passion he's never felt before.

Oh, God, was it wonderful. Everything John never knew he wanted was right there, and it was his for the taking. John rests his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, the kisses turning more gentle and longing. He smiles against the detective's lips, his teeth clicking with Sherlock's as his flat mate returned the smile.

"Sherlock..." John began, his mouth inches from Sherlock's, "I-"

"Hey!"

The two jerk apart, Sherlock's hand lingering on John's sweater.

Lawrence was about three feet away, trying to hide his smile with a glare.

"You two, there's no kissing here. You guys married?"

John blushes bright red before Sherlock answers, "No, Lawrence, we're just...engaging in some festivities, as it's Christmas and all."

"Jesus, Sherlock, can you not describe it as 'festivities'? For fuck's sake..." John stammers, visibly embarrassed.

Lawrence laughs, not even trying to hide his delight. "I could not care less, mate, but it's hospital policy that public displays of affection are to be kept to a minimum and between married couples."

Sherlock' mouth twitched up in a smile before he says, "Guess we're just going to have to get married then, aren't we, my dear?"

John splutters, trying to come up with a response but finding none.

"Sarcasm, my dear Watson. Don't embarrass yourself now." Sherlock says with a smug smile.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock, can you go six seconds without saying something incredibly stupid?!" John squeaks out, mortified.

"I once asked the same of you, but here we are," Sherlock retorts.

"God, just kiss again, it'd be less painful than watching you two go at it," Lawrence laughs, shaking his head.

"Is that permission, Lawrence?" The detective says with a half-smile, darting his eyes over to John, specifically to his lips.

At this point John has completely given up on speaking and collects his things.

"Well, looks like visiting hours are about up, so here, Sherlock, I brought your coat-" he thrusts the coat to Lawrence to be checked and approved "-and I brought you a present, so there's that-" he smacks the small package in the security guard's large hands "-so I will be off. Cheers, and happy Christmas."

John practically sprints out of the room, leaving the other two men in wonder at what happened. 


	13. Chapter 13 - Discharge

_Sherlock_

Today is the day.

Sherlock looked at his possessions neatly organized on his now-stripped twin sized hospital bed.

Today is the day.

He fingers his plastic hospital bracelet, warped and stretched from constant fiddling. He sure would be glad to cut that son of a bitch off.

Today.

"Sherlock, mate," Lawrence sticks his head into Sherlock's room-well, not his room anymore. "Time to go. Dr. Kincannon needs to evaluate you."

Sherlock nods, not fully listening.

It has been three months. Three months of hell. Three months and three days of boredom, therapy, and emotionally exhausting exercises.

"Sherlock. Come on, let's go." Lawrence repeats himself, shaking his patients slightly less bony shoulders.

Sherlcok snaps out of it and nods again. "Okay. I'm ready."

Damn, was that an understatement. He had been ready to go since the moment he stepped foot in the ER.

Once in Dr. Kincannon's office, he adopted an emotionless façade and a monotone voice, a sharp contrast to the doctor's cheerful demeanor.

"So, Mr. Holmes. Today is the day, isn't it? You finally get to go home! Let's get this evaluation out of the way so you can see John again."

Sherlcok nods, uneasy about the last part of her statement. What would life be like now that his feelings for John were no longer repressed?

"So, standard questions: do you want to hurt yourself?"

"No." Sherlock lied.

"Hurt anyone else?"

Sherlock shakes his head truthfully.

"Do you feel like killing yourself? Killing anyone else?"

"No, and no." Sherlock drones, becoming annoyed at the questions he has been asked ever since he was four years old.

"All right, now to the fun part!" The doctor chirps, annoying Sherlock even further.

"Do you feel this place has helped you, and why?"

Sherlock considers. He has put on weight (he doesn't like to think about that too much, however), and his wounds have healed into thick pink bands crisscrossing his arms, and he currently doesn't want to kill himself.

"I think that it hasn't been as useless as I have previously imagined," Sherlock says haltingly, hating to admit he was wrong.

Dr. Kincannon laughs, "Well that's a start! Okay, do you intend to keep the recovery plan and the relapse prevention program?"

Sherlock considers again. Did he? He had said this so many times, and broken it each time. What would it matter if he cut again? Or stopped eating? No one would care, there was no one he-

Oh. Right. John. John would care.

Sherlock sighs grudgingly and says, "I do. This time, I mean it."

Dr. Kincannon eyes him suspiciously before asking, "And what is different this time? Why should I believe you're going to even try to recover?"

Sherlcok hesitates beforehand answering truthfully, "John. John is why. I'm not elaborating further."

The doctor nods, convinced. "That I can believe. May I ask why?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "I don't believe that is part of the discharge evaluation, am I correct?"

Kincannon sighs and makes a note on her clipboard, "I believe part of the program is dedicated to trust-building, am I correct, Sherlock?"

"And I believe discretion is another part?" Sherlock snaps back. "Don't patronize me, Kincannon, your job is to check boxes and dot i's, not to give me some half-assed attempt at last minute therapy."

Kincannon sighs again, shaking her head. "Part of my job is also to detain patients that need further treatment, and you are making yourself an excellent candidate for that option."

Sherlock tenses, his breath catching in his throat, but he regains composure. "I don't want to hurt or kill myself or anyone else, I'm at a healthy weight, and haven't had a psychotic break for the last three weeks. I am fine." Sherlock hisses the last part.

The doctor sighs once more, which annoys Sherlock to almost the breaking point. "Fine. But if I see you in here again, we're going to have to consider residential treatment, of the permanent or semi-permanent nature."

Sherlock's brain immediately bursts into warning sirens and red flags. He feels his pulse quicken and his breathing grow irregular. He'd been dancing on the edge of institutionalization for quite a while, but he never considered that he would fall into that bottomless pit. Sherlock takes a breath and rebuilds the wall of emotionlessness that was crumbling as they speak.

"Is that a threat, doctor?" Sherlock says, a hard edge to his voice.

"Sherlock, I don't make threats. I don't make promises. I take the facts and I compare them to treatment options. You've been hospitalized almost sixty times since age four, and our staff has been incredibly lenient with you. We thought you were a good kid. We thought that you could be cured in the short term, adjusting medication now and then, cramming in as much therapy as your insurance could handle, and it's a miracle from God that you're about to walk out of here scot free. You have an amazing mind, you have someone who loves you, and you have everything in your favor. Do me a favor and never show your face here again. I never want to see you in this goddamn office ever again. And I mean that as lovingly as possible. Don't. Come. Back." Kincannon says, her voice almost at a shout at the end of her spiel.

Sherlock blinks, stunned, and all he can think to say is, "Yes ma'am. I hope I'll never see you again. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

The doctor sighs a fourth time and scribbles her signature on the discharge paper. "Here. Now get out of here."

Sherlock rockets upward and collects his things before practically sprinting out of the hospital, hailing a cab and speeding away.

 _I'll be home soon._

 _SH  
_  
Sherlock fires off a text once he's inside, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. Finally, he was home.

***

 _John_

John had been pacing the floor after he received his flatmate's text, and when he heard the front door open, his heart shot up into his throat and his eyes began to burn with tears.

He forced the emotion down when Sherlock opens the door and hesitantly peeks in.

"John-" he begins, but is cut off when John throws himself at the detective.

John feels the emotion bubbling to the surface, and screws his eyes shut as tears leak out. He tries to pretend that Sherlock's waist isn't as small as it has been before.

"Sherlock..." he managed, squeezing his best friend tight.

After a second, John feels arms around his waist too. He realizes that Sherlock actualy smells really good, and he can't feel the sharpness of his ribs anymore.

The two stand in an embrace for a few seconds before Sherlock awkwardly disengages.

"It's, ah, good to see you, John, now that I'm on the, ah, outside." Sherlock stutters, not sure about what he should say.

"Are you...are you really okay?" John whispers, almost too afraid for the answer.

Sherlock seems to have not heard the question, but after a while he answers,

"I don't know."

John's heart plummets to his shoes, fear building up in his throat.

"But...I think I will be."

John looks up, hope filling his ribcage.

"I...think that I will. Because this time I have someone here for me." Sherlock says haltingly, as if he were unsure of the veracity of his statement.

"I've gained weight," Sherlock cringes a little at this part, "about twenty pounds. My scars have healed. I don't currently want to die. So these are all good things, yes?"

John nods frantically, hoping to encourage the detective.

"I will need help, though. Help with my meal plan, help with keeping sharp objects locked up, and help with my emotions. For far too long I've pretended they don't exist, but they're there, and nothing I can do can make them go away. I am the master of my emotions. They will not control me any longer."

John nods again. "I promise Sherlock, I will do my best."

Suddenly, the two were interrupted by explosions heard outside.

"What the hell..." John goes to investigate. "Firecrackers...what in God's name...oh!"

"It's New Year's Eve, Sherlock!" John exclaims, having forgotten completely in the chaos.

Sherlock nods, unimpressed. "So?"

"Well, there's a tradition, see. At midnight, you're suppose to kiss someone. Someone special." John tries to drop hints at the ever oblivious Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock starts a bit when he realizes the implications. "You want to kiss...me?"

John nods, a smile ghosting at his lips. "Yeah. What about you?"

Sherlock appears to consider a bit before nodding, "Yes. I would."

"Well, your time's about to run out, it's 11:59." John says, stepping closer.

"I better get on with it, then," Sherlock closes the distance between them, and John's heart leaps into his throat.

The two close in on each other, their thoughts drowned out by the roar of fireworks and cheering.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," John murmurs, "and all that that implies." 


	14. Chapter 14 - Finally

_**A/N:**_

 **While this may seem like an extra chapter, I was looking through the fic and realized I had forgotten to add several chapters and then spent an hour fixing the whole story. So if you read this before March 21, 2017, then there are a few chapters you missed. Thanks guys, and I'm sorry for the confusion!**

 **-Hannah**

 _John_

"So...what now?" John asks hesitantly after he pulls away from Sherlock.

"What do you mean?" his flatmate asks, puzzled.

John inhales as he steps back from Sherlock.

"Well, I don't know. We can't go back to the way it was before-"

"Why?" Sherlock interjects, a frown deepening his face.

John exhales sharply in a half-laugh. "Well, I mean, now that we know how we feel about each other, and we've kissed several times...I just don't know where to go from here. Are we boyfriends? Do we tell anyone?"

Sherlock snorts and says, "Yeah, Mrs. Hudson would have a field day with that."

John laughs nervously and runs his hand through his greying hair, "Yeah, I imagine she would. My point is..." he inhales deeply through his nose, "what would you like us to be?"

Sherlock considers for a moment before answering, "Do you remember the first case we worked together? The one with the serial suicides?"

"A Study in Pink, yes." John nods, unsure of how this is pertinent to the conversation.

"Well, you had asked me if I had a girlfriend, and I had said no. You then asked me if I had a boyfriend, and then fell over yourself trying to tell me that that was okay, and I said that I knew it was okay." Sherlock pauses for a moment.

"So why are we stressing, is what you're saying?" John finishes for him.

"Yes, precisely. It's 2017, John, homosexuality has long been an acceptable practice." Sherlock says.

"So we just act like a normal couple? Hold hands, kiss, hug?" John smiles, already picturing the rest of his life with Sherlock.

"Yes. Because we are a normal couple-well, one of us is a war veteran and the other is a sociopath, but other than that, yes. I'm quite looking forward to it, honestly." Sherlock says, mirroring John's dreamy smile.

John nods, his gaze dropping towards Sherlock's sleeves.

"So...what to do about these?" John says quietly, reaching towards Sherlock's arms, who jerked them away before John could touch the fabric of his coat.

"Sherlock..." John says sadly, his voice still low. His heart twisted in his chest every time he thought of his beautiful Sherlock's scarred up arms.

Sherlock averts his eyes, but holds out his trembling arms.

John's chest hurts with every passing second as he rolls up the detective's thick sleeves.

His arms were not as stick thin as they had been, and the gaping wounds stretching the length of his arms had been stitched, so those particular scars were not as thick. He still had hundreds of scars, all in varying thickness, and John's heart broke when he saw multiple suicide scars-long, deep, thick scars that followed the radial artery in his arm. He touched those, ghosting his thumb over the thickest ones. Sherlock flinches at his cool touch, but allows him to continue looking, shame and self-hatred clouding his face.

"Oh, Sherlock..." John breathes; he could feel his heart shredding into two.

"Those were from when I was 15 and didn't know how deep I needed to go to die, and I tried a couple of times the same way before I figured out better ways to end my life." Sherlock murmurs, and John can see tears glistening like diamonds in his stormy blue eyes. John blinks back tears of his own before opening his mouth,

"How many times?" John asks, dreading the answer.

"I attempted 15 times over the past 20 years, but I never succeeded. I hesitated each time, that was the problem. I actually sat down one day when I was 17 and counted, and I had over a thousand scars. That was over 15 years ago, though." The detective's voice was so low that John could barely hear him.

John didn't think there was anything left in his chest to break, but he felt like his ribs were cracking under the immense weight of Sherlock's sorrow.

"I'm-" he began.

"Don't say you're sorry; it was never your fault. It's over now, and I don't want you dwelling on my past mistakes." Sherlock's voice had a bit of edge to it, but John could feel the absolute emptiness that was consuming his best friend.

"It's going to be fine, Sherlock. You'll be okay, I know you will be. Just let me in, and I'll help you. I love you." John says shakily, releasing his hold on the taller man's arms. Sherlock quickly shakes his sleeves back down and clutches the cuffs.

"Do you promise me?" Sherlock says quietly. "Do you promise me you'll love me, even on the bad days, even when I can't force myself to eat, even when I relapse, even when the voices in my head are too loud to hear anything else? Do you promise to love every part of me you find scattered on the floor?"

John's throat is thick with emotion, but he manages to say, "Yes, Sherlock, I do. I will do my damndest to help you heal."

Sherlock sighs shakily, shaking his head. "Look at the two of us, losing our minds in the name of love. I will never understand why this emotion forces us to do insane things."

John laughs, carding his hand through his already mussed hair. "Neither will I, Sherlock. It's already 1:00 in the morning, Sherlock. I think we should get to bed."

Sherlock opened his mouth, unsure of the implications of the statement. "Do you mean together? Or separately? I don't know what you mean."

John laughs again, giving the detective a fond look. "Whatever you want, Sherlock. I'll leave the door unlocked."

 _Sherlock_

Sherlock hovers outside of John's door, listening to see if his flatmate was asleep. The floor creaks unhelpfully as he shifts his weight.

Sherlock runs his hand through his curly locks, still wet from the shower he took. John had taken all the sharp objects out of the bathroom, and Sherlock was surprised he found all the razors he'd hidden.

Slowly, he pushes open the door, peering into the dark room. He wants to call out for John, but doesn't want to wake him.

The detective musters up his courage, and creeps around to the other side of the bed and crawls in, cautiously settling himself in.

"You came back..." John mumbles sleepily, "come on, I don't bite." He gestures vaguely in his direction.

Sherlock hesitantly gets closer to John, his heart palpitating when he comes in contact with John's thin T-shirt.

Sherlock had never been much of a snuggler, but he was willing to make an exception tonight.

The two slept peacefully for the first time in months.

Hey guys! This is going to be the final chapter and I hope you guys like it. I'm really grateful for all the love and support you guys have given me. I was looking through the beginning of the fic one day and saw an authors note saying "I'm so excited that I got 100 reads!" and now here we are today with over 5 thousand reads (EDIT: we now have almost 8,000!). Thank you guys so much, it's always been you that made this possible. I love you, and I hope you enjoyed the ride :):):)

-Hannah

~Three months later~

John

There really is no better way to wake up than with the love of your life's face next to yours.

"Morning, Sherlock..." John says sleepily, a smile warming his face. "You sleep well?"

Sherlock nods, mirroring his boyfriend's smile. "About 5 hours, which is good, considering."

John inhales soberly. Sherlock had been having nightmares almost every night since he was discharged three months ago, and John was beginning to worry.

"Are you sure you don't want to see someone-" John begins.

"Yes. I'm sure. All they're going to do is give me a sedative that will dull my senses." Sherlock says definitively.

"You're going to be asleep, Sherl, your senses don't get much more dull than that!" John laughs as he sits up, stretching towards the ceiling. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, and realizes he's slept without a shirt on for the first time he's been sleeping with Sherlock.

"Enjoying the show, mate?" John snorts, a smile tugging at his lips. He stands and begins to get dressed.

Sherlock turns a deep red, running his hand through his hair uncomfortably, "Well, I mean, yes, but, I'm not saying that-"

"Shut up you stupid git and kiss me," John smiles into Sherlock's mouth, a sense of contentment washing over him.

They had made it. They had defeated Sherlock's monsters, they had quelled his self-hatred, and given love to the unlovable. They finally made it to happiness.

"Are you happy, Sherl?" John asks, his breath hot on Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock's face contorts into confusion, "What do you mean?"

John pulls back, rocking on his heels. "I mean, are you happy? With yourself, with your life, with...me?"

"I don't know if I've ever really experienced happiness, true happiness anyway. I wouldn't know what happy was unless it bit me on the arse," Sherlock says slowly, "but I do believe I am experiencing it now. You make me happy. I always thought that the idea of love, of making each other happy, was a charade that lonely people took part in. But now, I don't know. I think I am."

John nods, "I think you are too. Maybe not with yourself, maybe not with your mind, but I believe you're well on the road to happiness."

Sherlock smiles and says, "I think that is a truly exciting prospect."

John chuckles as he pulls on his coat, "Anything involving you is bound to be exciting, mate."

 _Sherlock_

As the detective watches John walk out of the room, he allows himself to think freely.

Life seemed so much better now. Sure, he had relapsed a few times and still had trouble with food, but it seems that the long, dark tunnel that was his life was coming to an end. He could almost taste the light that shone at the other end.

John. It was always John. John made him cry, John made him laugh, and John was the thing that saved him.

And emotions. Emotions were finally slipping through. And he let them. Gone were the days of frantically bottling up his rage and frustation and depression and love. Thirty-seven years of compressed feelings were rattling around in his chest, and John loved every one.

God, what did he do to deserve such a man?

"Sherlock! I've got to go to work, are you okay by yourself?" John called from the other room, a slight edge of worry to his voice.

"Yes, I'll be okay. I promise." Sherlock says truthfully. The need to hurt himself was relatively low at the moment.

As the door slams shut, Sherlock laid back down on the bed, pressing his face into John's pillow. He could smell his shampoo, aftershave, and something else that was just pure John. The smell brought a wave of joy over him, lightening the constant pressure of his depression on his sternum.

Soon, Sherlock was asleep, the scent of John weaving its way into his dreams.

And he knew he was happy. For now, all was well.

The End...?


End file.
